Thicker than water
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: He couldn't breathe. The sucking and squelching was pulling him under. His arms were too weak to fight back. He kicked with his legs and sank even further. "This is it," he thought as his head sank beneath the mud. - An entry into the April Fête des Mousquetaires
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this here is my second official story and first in a Fete! Hope you enjoy it!

oooooooo

"Loosen your elbow, and breathe," said Aramis as D'Artagnan took aim for what must have been the hundredth time. D'Artagnan was grateful for all the help offered by Aramis, Athos and Porthos, but he was annoyed that his improvement with a pistol was struggling compared to his advancement with a sword. It wasn't that Aramis was a poor teacher – and it wasn't that D'Artagnan was a poor shot. In fact, Aramis was a supportive instructor, and more patient than Athos was at times. The problem was that Aramis was so good! The gun seemed to be an extension of his arm and somehow he ALWAYS hit his target.

"Maybe you should give the pup a chance," teased Porthos. "Bring the targets closer!"

Aramis glared at the big musketeer. Turning back, he whispered to D'Artagnan, "Ignore him. When I first began working with Porthos, he nearly shot himself trying to load the thing. Just breathe, slowly, and pull the trigger."

D'Artagnan glanced at the marksman, who winked at him and gave him an encouraging smile.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, and stared down the sight of the barrel. He took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

"At this rate we'd all be dead," said Athos wryly; Porthos burst out laughing; D'Artagnan dropped his head; Aramis glared now at both of his brothers who had been watching the target practice.

"Forgive me D'Artagnan," said Athos, under the stern but silent reproach from his brother. "Sometimes distraction is unavoidable in battle. Despite our…commentary, you were able to strike the target," he said indicating the new hole in the practice target. True, the impact was well off from the concentric blue and red circles he had been aiming for, but it DID make contact.

"Not a kill shot, tha's for sure, but ya definitely wounded 'im. Sometimes tha's just as good," said Porthos clapping a hand on the young man's back. "Cheer up, eh?"

"Yes," said Aramis. "I know it may not feel like it, but you ARE improving."

"In fact," he continued. "I think this could be a cause to celebrate, and I think Porthos and Athos have generously offered to treat tonight," he said, throwing an arm around the younger man and, tossing the other two a grin that said both "You deserve this" and "I dare you to argue", he led the boy back to the garrison leaving Porthos and Athos to clean up the shooting range.

oOo

It was hard to believe that D'Artagnan had only been a cadet with the Musketeers for a few months. The three senior musketeers had, in a sense, adopted D'Artagnan after he helped to rescue Athos from execution.

"It was funny," D'Artagnan thought, "I came here to kill him, and now we're…"

He paused his thoughts there. What were these men to him? What was he to them? The word "brother" popped up, but he quickly tried to squash that thought, fearing that even by thinking it, he might destroy the chance that it might one day come true.

It had started to rain again. The deluge had continued off and on for nearly a week now. The streets of Paris were nearly buckled under the excessive rain water, pools of what could accurately be described as fetid quagmire had begun to form in certain alleyways.

An elbow from Porthos jostled D'Artagnan from his thoughts. Mercifully, Treville had moved that morning's muster into the refectory, however, he was now staring pointedly at the Gascon who felt his cheeks begin to redden instantly.

"Well! Now that D'Artagnan has decided to rejoin us, I'll allow him to investigate the rumours of ruffians a few leagues east of the city. That should take most of the day," he scolded. A few men at the back chuckled lowly at the scolding. D'Artagnan had dropped his head, cheeks certainly burning now. Porthos glanced at Aramis and grinned. Treville noticed.

"You three," he continued, indicating Porthos, Athos and Aramis, "will accompany him. Dismissed!"

Though Treville had regretted singling out the young man who was so eager to find his place among the Musketeers, he had a duty to show the importance of discipline to his men, and by including Les Inseparables in his punishment, Treville hoped that he was showing the rest of the regiment that he didn't play favourites and that no one was exempt from his standards of discipline. If Aramis' slack jaw and the sag in Porthos' shoulders were any indication, the message had been received. The only man to not react was Athos – stoic as ever – though if Treville were honest, he could have sworn that his Lieutenant's eyes had flashed with annoyance for just a moment.

Treville grinned slightly as he turned to head back to his office. It might actually be a good idea to literally throw some water on these men, he thought.

"Sorry," muttered D'Artagnan meekly as the other musketeers retreated to their rooms leaving the four soon-to-be-soggy soldiers huddled in the refectory.

"I'll prepare the horses," said Athos brusquely, heading for the door.

Porthos sighed and glanced out the window. "It's rainin' cats n' dogs," he grumbled, his mood now reflecting the weather outside.

"It's alright mon ami, we've all been there," said Aramis putting his hand on the dejected D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Who hasn't been lost thinking about a beautiful woman? Who was it? Madame Bonacieux? Or someone else perhaps?" Aramis teased, grin affixed and eyebrow raised. If possible, D'Artagnan blushed even darker and headed out into the rain after Athos.

Porthos grinned. "Thanks. I feel better already."

Aramis grinned back. "Come now Porthos. He's still young. Soon he's not going to let us tease him. What better way to pass a rainy day?"

"I'd prefer to be inside, warm and dry…preferably with a glass of wine and at a card table," he rumbled with a grin.

"Ideally at the Gilded Leaf, where the beautiful Francine works…" Aramis crooned and led his friend out the door, laughing, and into the rain to meet the others.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2

For Aramis, there was always something calming about riding in the rain. Clothed in his thick blue Musketeer's cloak, he smiled as his mare plodded on, the steady drip of rainwater on the surrounding grass putting him at ease.

The same could not be said for Athos as he readjusted his hat on his head, sending a slight cascade of water down his shoulder. While comfortable on top of his horse in any situation, he found the rain almost intolerable. A side effect of his noble upbringing, he thought bitterly.

Porthos had a similar outlook to Athos. He hated the cold and the rain. As a child of the Court of Miracles, he had spent much of his life cowering from the rain with very little shelter. It was a regular occurrence to see someone lose their life to the cruelty of the weather. He grumbled and muttered to himself as he rode next to Aramis, purposely trying to ignore the smile of the marksman – one that only seemed to grow the more Porthos grumbled.

D'Artagnan trailed behind the others slightly. The thick mud squelched below his horse's feet as they went. The clouds that had gathered around his head were heavier than the ones in the sky. He couldn't shake the memory of the last time he had been out in a drizzle like this. Images of his father lying in the mud, his life blood mixing into the murk as the rain engulfed the pair of them and cemented the worst moment of D'Artagnan's life, flashed before his eyes.

They had been riding for a few hours when Athos, spotting a small clump of trees in the distance suggested that they might take a mid-morning break for the horses' sake. The others readily agreed. D'Artagnan said nothing, still reflecting on the mud and pain of the past.

"God bless Serge," said Aramis as he searched in the saddle bag prepared for them by the cook. "We have a near feast!"

He passed Porthos a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese and tossed D'Artagnan an apple. The young Gascon took it and smiled. Serge knew how much he loved apples, and taking pity on the boy, the old cook snuck a few into the rations he was preparing for the quartet.

"Is there any wine?" inquired Athos.

"Yes," said Aramis, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "A bit early, no?"

Athos' eyes flashed. "Porthos, see if you can rouse a small fire. Some mulled wine might do us all good to fight this rain…unless Aramis thinks it better we all risk a cold…"

Aramis' eyes flashed in kind, his hand flying to his chest dramatically. "You wound me, brother."

"Not yet," said Athos with a quirk to his lips, "but the day is still early."

Aramis grinned, and bowing to his brother he said, "I accept the challenge," handing him the wine skin with a smirk.

The four men's spirits revived slightly over the small cups of hot wine and they were soon setting off once more. The rain had tapered off, though the low hanging clouds seemed to threaten to unleash their wrath again at any moment.

After another hour or so in the saddle, the Musketeers reached their destination. Pulling off the main road, the men located an expanse in the trees that afforded them a bit of shelter. "With any luck, we won't have to deal with these bandits at all!" said Porthos as he and Aramis tethered the horses while Athos and D'Artagnan once again tried to rouse a small fire from some of the dryer pieces of word that they had brought with them or could find nearby nearby.

D'Artagnan was returning to their campsite, arms loaded with a small bundle of dryer wood, when he heard the unmistakeable click of a pistol locking. The sudden pressure between his shoulder blades confirmed the weapon's presence.

"Move," growled a low voice from behind him. "Any noise and I'll shoot ya," it said.

D'Artagnan dropped his firewood as he was roughly shoved forward.

"Abou' time," said Porthos as D'Artagnan re-entered the clearing. The grin vanished from his face immediately as he took in the man following D'Artagnan.

"On your knees Musketeers or I shoot this brat," snarled the bandit. He was thin and dressed in dark clothes that looked to have been of high quality at some point, but were now worn and tattered.

Athos rose slowly from his crouched position by the fire and turned to face the man. "I would carefully consider your next sentence," Athos said. "There are four of us, and one of you. Why throw your life away needlessly?"

"Three, if I kill this one," spat the man, "And I ain't so alone," he said as six or seven men emerged from the surrounding trees with weapons drawn and trained on the musketeers. Athos raised an eyebrow at Aramis who had his pistol in his hand. A brief but silent conversation ensued before the marksman gave a slight shake to his head.

"Throw down your weapons," screamed the man. He kicked D'Artagnan in the back of the legs, driving the young man down to his knees.

"Hey!" shouted Aramis, taking a slight step forward. Instantly, one of the men who had emerged behind the marksman delivered a vicious blow to the back of his head with the butt of a pistol, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Porthos roared and made for the man, but was halted immediately when the bandit aimed his gun at the semi-conscious musketeer sprawled on the ground.

"Bind them," sneered the leader, kicking D'Artagnan forward again. "Get their horses," he commanded one of his troops.

Two men stepped forward and grabbed Porthos, who began to struggle. The leader of the gang responded by landing a vicious kick to D'Artagnan's side. Porthos froze. The man continued to drive his boot into the young man's ribs until an audible crack was heard.

"Okay! Okay!" shouted Porthos as D'Artagnan gasped for air.

"Enough!" shouted Athos. "What is it that you want?"

"Everything you're worth," responded the man as D'Artagnan was pulled roughly from the mud. Hoods were dropped over their heads as they were marched from the clearing, Aramis strapped to the side of his horse.

oOo


	3. Chapter 3

The men marched for what seemed like an hour, Porthos, Athos and D'Artagnan stumbling through the darkness of their hoods, D'Artagnan struggling to breathe. Aramis was faring no better. A slight trail of blood had dripped along his jaw line. The jostling of the horse was thwarting his attempts to rouse. Finally the men were led up the stairs of a house, the smell of a nearby bog present in the air. The hoods were removed and the musketeers were shoved down the stairs into a dark and dank cellar. Aramis was thrown roughly into the room a moment later.

"Careful," sneered one of their captors, "That one's pretty." Cackling, the men pulled the door closed and locked it. Porthos immediately dropped to his knees next to Aramis.

"'Mis. 'Mis!" he called, arms still bound as he bent over the prone man.

"'orthos," the man muttered groggily, eyelashes fluttering as he tried to open his eyes.

Porthos looked up helplessly at Athos.

"Aramis," the lieutenant commanded, "open your eyes."

Slowly and with great effort, the marksman's eyelids fought gravity until they found the burning blue eyes than had given him the order.

"There you are," said Athos, his eyes full of concern were locked on his reeling comrade.

"'Thos" mumbled Aramis. "Porthos. What happened? D'Artagnan! Is the boy okay?"

"I'm fine," gasped the Gascon as he placed himself within Aramis' line of sight.

"You're bleeding," Aramis said bluntly.

"It's just a scratch," he said, wiping a slight trace of blood from his cheekbone.

"And your ribs are broken," growled Porthos. Aramis sat up quickly – too quickly apparently as he pitched forward as a wave of nausea hit him.

D'Artagnan glared at Porthos, who glared back.

Ignoring the two others, Athos focused on Aramis and said to him calmly, "Aramis. Can you hear me?"

Aramis nodded slightly, as he fought the dark pools trying to invade his vision and the bile that threatened to bubble over his lips.

Suddenly, the door to their cellar banged open. The men in the doorway immediately seized upon D'Artagnan, the only man still standing and began once again to pummel him, still bound and unable to protect himself. Porthos leapt to his feet. One of the men turned instead to seize Porthos and was reward with a swift head butt, cartilage and bone crushing under the force of the blow. The man howled and drew away covering his nose. Blood was streaming steadily down his face.

A deafening bang shook the room. The bandit leader held two pistols in his hands, one barrel now smoking.

"Enough," he shouted. "You Musketeers better be worth the trouble you're causing me. I'm sure the King will still pay if there's only two of you," he said nodding to his goons.

One of the thugs quickly plunged his blade into the Gascon's side and withdrew it just as quickly.

"D'Artagnan!" shouted the musketeers.

The leader sneered and tossed a water skin to the floor, leading his men from the room. D'Artagnan, was now slumped against the wall of the cell. Porthos was at his side in an instant.

As soon as the men had left, Aramis immediately fought to get up. "D'Artagnan," he moaned, trying to reach the young man.

Porthos dropped to his knees at the Gascon's side. "You're okay," he coached, "just breathe slowly. Tha's it. Nice n' easy."

"How is he?" Athos asked. Porthos look back at him, giving a slight shrug to his shoulder. Porthos knew he wasn't the one who would be able to assess the true damage done.

Nodding, Athos refocused on Aramis.

"Aramis," he said, the man's eyes focusing on him. "We need to help D'Artagnan," he said. "The men took our weapons when they bound our hands. You're hands are the only ones that are free," he said slowly. "I need you to see if you can untie the ropes."

Aramis nodded. "No need," he said, and reaching into his boot he drew out a long, thin dagger.

"Of course," thought Athos, "always trust the marksman to be prepared for a quick escape."

Aramis cut the bonds from Athos, who then relieved Porthos and D'Artagnan.

"How are you?" asked Porthos, voice and eyes full of concern.

"I'm fine," he said. "Let me see D'Artagnan." Porthos rolled his eyes, but helped Aramis to the young man's side. Porthos knew Aramis would never be able to focus on his own injuries without inspecting D'Artagnan first. Porthos handed Aramis the water skin who accepted it gratefully. He took a swig and passed it back to Porthos. He ran a hand through his hair and groaned when it came back wet with blood but ignored it. Aramis looked at D'Artagnan. The cut to his cheek had stopped bleeding, but the bruising there was evident immediately. He quickly put pressure on the stab wound which was bleeding slugishly.

"The water," he demanded without looking at his other brothers. He positioned the young man so he was sitting up right. He doused the wound with the water; D'Artagnan hissed in pain.

"Keep pressure on the wound. I need to check his ribs," he instructed Athos, who wadded up the Gascon's shirt and pressed it against the wound. Aramis' well-practised hands made their way along the young man's side who grimaced in pain as the medic felt along his ribs.

"Damn," whispered Aramis. "You have at least three ribs that are cracked. Luckily, none seem to be broken, but you're going to be in a lot of pain and discomfort and I have nothing on me to help you with that. My medical kit is in my saddlebag," he said a little bitterly. "The knife wound will need to be stitched as soon as we get out of here."

"'S Okay," D'Artagnan gasped, guilt laced with the pain he was trying to control. "My fault…Wasn't…paying attention…got us in…this."

"D'Artagnan," began Aramis placing a hand on the back of the man's neck, his dark eyes full of confusion and concern, trying to catch the young man's eyes.

"Can he move?" asked Athos from over his shoulder.

Aramis' shoulders sagged as he looked at the swordsman, his hand remaining on the young Gascon's neck as he struggled to breathe normally. Athos' eyes bore into Aramis', concern evident to everyone but D'Artagnan whose lowered head missed the exchange.

"We need to get him out of here. If I can pad that wound and bind his ribs, that might relieve him a bit," said their medic, "but the ribs are badly damaged. I fear that another blow, may cause them to break or shift. Again, the knife wound isn't too bad, but it's still bleeding. They seem to have missed anything vital, but even still…We need to get out of here and get it stitched. That is, if we can even find our way out of here."

Athos nodded, taking in the medic's prognosis.

"Did any of you get a look at how we got here?" Aramis asked as he unwound the blue sash from his own waist and tore the hem of his shirt. Placing it as padding on his young friend's injury, and he began to tightly bind D'Artagnan's torso with the sash.

Athos shook his head. "Our heads were covered. We seemed to be heading south, deeper into the woods. We walked for about an hour."

Aramis nodded. "I fared little better. But there is a bog nearby. The smell was barely tolerable as we approached this place."

Athos nodded, remembering the stench of the mud. "Alright, we'll figure that out once we're out of this cell. Porthos?" he asked.

The large musketeer was kneeling before the door and was attempting to pick the lock with Aramis' dagger.

"Almost…" he grumbled. "There!" he said as the lock clicked open.

"Excellent," said Aramis as he got to his feet. Swaying, he reach out to the wall for support.

"Will you be able to move?" Athos asked pointedly as the marksman stabilized himself.

"I'm fine," he replied firmly, and bent slowly to help D'Artagnan to his feet.

Athos narrowed his eyes at the man, engaging him once more in a silent argument. This time Athos lost the battle as the brown eyes of his friend glared back at him.

"All right," said Athos, "but stay behind Porthos. Neither of you will be able to defend yourselves until we can somehow retrieve our weapons."

oOo


	4. Chapter 4

Athos led the way out onto the landing, armed only with the small dagger. Porthos was close behind with D'Artagnan leaning on Aramis bringing up the rear.

As they made their way up the stairs, D'Artagnan emitted a slight groan.

"Easy," whispered Aramis, adjusting his grip so it was higher on the man's side. Athos and Porthos looked down at the pair. Aramis met their gaze and with a resigned shake of his head, he helped the man up onto the next step.

"Stop that," whispered D'Artagnan.

"Stop what?" muttered Aramis, eyes trained on Porthos' back.

"I know you're talking about me…Not with words…but I know," he gasped. Aramis said nothing but tightened his jaw. "I'm sorry," he groaned. "I'm putting you all in danger…You should just leave me here."

"Never," said Aramis. "We are going to get out of here," he said, pulling the Gascon a little closer and giving the arm slung across his shoulder a tight squeeze.

They had reached the top of the stairs. Athos stood listening at the door. Finally, with a meaningful look at his companions below him, he turned and kicked the door open.

The door burst open into a living room littered with a few chairs. A fire burned in the hearth and a large wood table stood off to the side. Some of the men, sprawled in the chairs sat stunned at the appearance of the musketeers. Athos grabbed the man nearest to them and plunged the small blade into his chest. The man's death moan seemed to rouse the others who all quickly leapt to their feet. Porthos stooped and grabbed the dead man's rapier and pistol. Aramis lowered D'Artagnan into a chair and caught the pistol and rapier Porthos tossed him.

"D'Artagnan!" shouted Athos, pulling the rapier from another dead bandit. "Get the horses!"

D'Artagnan struggled to his feet as he saw Aramis engage with another oncoming foe while simultaneously firing at a man who was approaching the Gascon.

Porthos grappled with two men. He narrowly ducked under the blow of one man and delivered a massive punch to the other's ribs. The man who had stabbed him, D'Artagnan realized as he turned and hobbled for the side door clutching his ribs. The blue sash was heavily saturated with blood.

With a last look at the three musketeers, each engaged with an enemy combatant, D'Artagnan hesitated.

"Go!" Porthos shouted at him, delivering a vicious kick to a bandit's mid-section.

D'Artagnan hurled himself out the door, stumbling down the porch steps. He started to make his way towards the stables. His feet stumbling through the blood loss and soft mud. To his left festered a thick bog, the smell nearly blowing the Gascon off his feet. A few more stumbling steps and D'Artagnan was suddenly thrown forward as a massive force hit his back, driving him to the ground at the edge of the sludge.

D'Artagnan rolled over to face his attacker. The frenzied face of the bandits' leader loomed over him. D'Artagnan managed to free himself from under the man, and they grappled on their knees in the putrid mud. Further and further into the quagmire D'Artagnan and the man wrestled. Out of nowhere, the man drew a blade.

D'Artagnan shifted his grip and locked onto the man's raised arm wielding the blade. Slowly, he managed to turn the man's wrist, the dagger's tip now pointing towards its owner. D'Artagnan could feel his feet sinking even further into the mud. He was waist deep now.

The man's eyes widened and he continued to struggle with D'Artagnan for the blade. In desperation, he began to strike the site of the stabbing. D'Artagnan grunted but kept fighting. Finally, with a last drive, D'Artagnan was able to plunge the dagger's blade into the man's chest. The bandit gurgled as his lungs filled with blood, his eyes lifeless as he slumped sideway, and was lost to the muck.

D'Artagnan was breathing heavily. The mud and water were now chest height. His sides were on fire. He desperately tried to pull himself from the filth, but it was no use.

He couldn't breathe. The sucking and squelching was pulling him under. His arms were too weak to fight back. He kicked with his legs and sank even further. This is it, he thought as his head sank beneath the mud.

oOo


	5. Chapter 5

All went dark and quiet. He was utterly and horribly alone now, buried without honour under the foul, stinking sludge. The grime filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. His one hand still desperately protruded through the surface.

In those final moments D'Artagnan's only thoughts were of the men he had left in the house.

He should have stayed to fight with them. He should have become a Musketeer. Now he would never get his chance to prove himself. Prove himself to the Captain, to the King, to himself and his companions. He could never tell them how much their support had meant to him, how much he respected and cared about them. He could never say how desperately he had tried to make them proud and live up to their example.

Porthos' smiling face flashed before his eyes, followed by Aramis' roguish grin and cavalier wink. Next came Athos' stoic face, the cold blue eyes unable to hide their mirth. Athos morphed into the shape of his father, his face smiling warmly, his arms spread out to welcome his son.

"Father!" D'Artagnan shouted. "Father, I'm so sorry I disappointed you."

"You haven't my son, not yet," his father responded. D'Artagnan gasped.

"You were always a fighter, son. Don't give up now. Your brothers will have need of you…" his father replied as he faded into the darkness of the murk.

"Father!" D'Artagnan shouted, fighting harder against the muck that was swallowing him whole, its hands grasping him and pulling his further into their muddy depths.

And then suddenly, the darkness faded. Something had clasped onto his desperately flailing arm and was slowly, but surely pulling him to the surface. Arms locked themselves across his chest as his head broke the stagnant water's surface. D'Artagnan began spluttering and spewing, desperately trying to clear his lungs of the sludge.

"Easy! Easy," soothed a voice in his ear.

"'Mis!" D'Artagnan gasped, then went limp in the medic's arms.

oOo

"D'Artagnan," someone called to him softly. "Open your eyes," the voice ordered.

D'Artagnan felt a hand run itself through his hair as he struggled to obey the command.

"That's it. Open your eyes," the order repeated.

With great effort, D'Artagnan opened his eyes. He was lying on the table in the home they had been held captive in. Athos was sat next to him, holding the Gascon's hand in his own.

"'Thos," he mumbled. "What happened?" he said and looked desperately around the room. Athos sported a cut above his eyebrow. Aramis was wrapped in a blanket and was reclined in a chair by the fire. Porthos was next to him stirring something in a pot. He winced slightly as he turned at the sound of the young man's voice and approached the table. Aramis was close behind, roused by the big man's movement.

"Ya might need ta be more specific," said Porthos beaming at him. He pulled a chair forward and sat Aramis in it as the marksman swayed slightly next to him.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't understand. How…What happened? How did we get out?"

The three men shared a look. D'Artagnan read identical looks of concern in each man's eyes.

"What do you remember last?" asked Aramis, gently.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow, trying to recall what had passed.

"You told me to get the horses," he muttered. "The leader of those men…he followed me. We fought in the bog…Had a dagger," said D'Artagnan bringing a hand to his temple and gently massaging it. "I managed to kill him…then," he said, his breathing picking up as his panic grew at his recollections. "Then, I couldn't get out…the mud…felt like hands, pulling me under…I saw…I saw…I saw…"

The Gascon broke off hyperventilating as he recalled the determined pull of the mud and the images it had created.

"Breathe," said Aramis, grasping the man's empty hand. "Just breathe."

The three musketeers shared a look of concern over their youngest's bowed head. They waited a moment as the young man conquered himself, then suddenly D'Artagnan raised his head.

"Then I heard you!" he said staring at Aramis. "What happened?!" he asked again.

Aramis chuckled and began to cough hoarsely. "Maybe you should tell him," he said to Athos as Porthos passed the marksman a steaming mug.

The Gascon looked at Athos, his brown eyes locked on the blue.

Athos sighed. "We emerged from the cellar to find the men relaxing in the living room. Let's say they were surprised to see us."

"I'll say," rumbled Porthos, grinning slightly.

Athos glanced at the brawler, a glint of humour in his eyes. "We were…a bit outnumbered. I ordered you to get the horses, hoping to remove you from the chaos of the room and to hopefully expedite our departure. We managed to vanquish all the gang members. Aramis led the charge to follow you outside – you know how seriously he takes his patients' health. It was Aramis who saw your hand protruding from the mud," he said, lips quirking and eyes sparkling now as he looked at the marksman with both exasperation and pride. "Then, in true Aramis fashion, he recklessly threw himself into the bog after you before anyone could stop him."

"It wasn't reckless," Aramis interjected. "We didn't know how long he'd been under and needed to get him out of that filth."

"That's true," said Porthos looking at him fondly. "But how were ya expectin' to get yerself outta that mess?" he asked, eyes bright with repressed laughter.

"Well I figured you and Athos had to be good for something," he retorted peevishly.

"Thankfully, in this instance you were correct," Athos smirked. "Aramis grabbed you, I grabbed him, and Porthos grabbed me, and together we were able to pull you from the bog."

D'Artagnan let out a brief burst of laughter at the image and immediately began to cough, struggling once more to breathe as the pain in his sides returned with a vengeance. .

"Careful!" said Aramis. "You managed to break one of your ribs in your mud-wrestling match. I was able to stitch the stab wound once we were able to get the grime off of you. So far it has somehow remained miraculously clear of infection."

D'Artagnan nodded as he struggled to regulate his breathing again.

"Rest now D'Artagnan," said Athos, as the Gascon's eyelids began to drift close.

"Thank you," he muttered to the men at his bedside.

"For what?" asked Porthos.

"For not leaving me…for not letting go…" he said as he drifted off.

"Never, brother," said Aramis, squeezing the young man's hand. Three pairs of eyes burned with an identical fondness as they looked down at their injured Gascon, each man silently vowing to spend what life was left to them in the defence of their new brother.

Porthos, Athos and Aramis' eyes met across the body of their fourth.  
"All for one and one for all," the vowed in their language that needed no words, a language that in time the Gascon would grow fluent in as well. The blood of their brotherhood was thicker than water; thicker than mud.


End file.
